A Very Supernatural Advent Calendar
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: Fics posted every day, right up until christmas :  Fluff, porn, angst...luck of the draw really. :  Destiel, Sabriel etc. T right now WILL BE M IN LATER CHAPTERS just fyi.
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome to the ADVENT FIC EXTRAAAVEGANZA! The twelve days of Christmas, fic style. (I'm hoping to go till Christmas day, but, work is what it is – so I may not be able to make it)_

_Some will be fluffy, some will be smutty, and some will be downright filthy. Snippets, one shots, PWP's, and short segments that build into a story._

_Merry Christmas _

It's not jumping the shark if you never come back down. (And it's not JR in the shower, if you never come back out).

It's been a trying year, and by the time Christmas rolls around, Dean doesn't feel much like celebrating.

He's lying, face down, on a bed at Bobby's latest safe house. A house so safe that it has no electricity, hot water, internet or even floorboards in several of the upstairs rooms. He has two bottles of whisky under the bed, and a box of cheese crackers on the nightstand. And he isn't moving for anything less than a house fire. If anyone comes near him with Christmas cheer, he's going to shoot them, kick them in the nuts, then shoot them again, and go back to bed.

Not that either Sam, or Bobby, really feel like celebrating.

Sam's still operating with Lucifer vision 24/7, and Bobby hasn't ever really been a Christmas kind of guy. He probably missed his wife, the family they could have had, the life he had had until it had been ripped away.

Dean knew that feeling well.

So he's determined to sleep through the blessed day, when he hears the shower start up in the en suite, and all kinds of 'DANGER WILL ROBINSON' signals start running up his spine and down his gun arm.

Not now with this shit. Shifter in the shower, Werewolf under the sink, leviathan in the soap dish – whatever it was it was not going to be standing when he left that bathroom.

Dean rolled off of the bed, nabbed his gun from the side table, and crept towards the bathroom door, nudging it open and aiming at the shower curtain, which was pulled across, obscuring the shadow of a figure standing under the running water.

Dean is kind of at a loss – shoot the thing and he might kill someone, or piss off something, that's powerful but ultimately benign.

Should he cough?

Dean kicks the side of the tub. "Hey?"

The curtain pulls back a little, and Castiel's dripping wet head peeks over the top.

Dean stares at him.

Castiel stares back.

A gobbet of suds runs out of his hair, and down his face.

"Did I wake you?"

"Huh?" Is all Dean's mouth and brain are capable of offering.

"Sorry. I was just...lake scented." Castiel's nose wrinkles. "Sam has nice soap."

Dean can actually feel his brain trying to catch up.

"How is there hot water?" Is the first question to leave his mouth.

Castiel rolls his eyes.

"It's a Christmas miracle."

Dean makes a very unmanly whimpery noise. It's just too weird. He needs to sit down, and have a snooze.

"You were dead."

"No I wasn't."

"Yes. You were." Dean insists.

"Maybe you had a bad dream?" Castiel suggests, with his very-bad-lying-face on, he holds out a hand, offering him a loofa. "Do my back for me?"

Dean takes the loofa numbly.

"You were dead." He says again.

"It's a miracle Dean." Castiel says, pulling the curtain back and stepping aside so that Dean can hop into the tub. "Just be happy."

Dean remembers something after he climbs into the tub, just as Castiel squirts some red, cinnamon scented shampoo into his hair.

"What about Sam?"

"Mmmm?" Castiel says, tongue poking from his mouth as he reaches up to lather Dean's hair.

"Where's his miracle?"

"He won't remember Hell anymore. And everything that's broken in him...everything he's lost, will be restored to him. He's your brother again, as he was before your father died."

Dean feels like someone's gripping his heart, and even though he trusts them, it's still a little scary.

"And..."

"Bobby's wife is making pie in the kitchen." Castiel murmurs.

Dean can't think of anything to say to that, only thinks that the feeling of having his heart held by someone else is getting stronger and stronger with each passing second, and if it didn't feel so good, he'd be kind of terrified.

Because...Castiel is back, and...everything's ok. And he can't quite believe it, but he doesn't have to, because it's true.

Castiel continues with his task, murmuring,

"Close your eyes...I don't want to make them all teary."


	2. Chapter 2

Angel on a Tree

Gabriel and Castiel sit awkwardly on Bobby's couch, watching Dean as he teeters on a short step ladder, trying to fluff up the wings of the bedraggled tree topper. The plastic faced angel in its golden robe looks slightly squiffy, like it's been getting into the eggnog early, and both angel's took an instant dislike to its tacky costume and stupidly rosy cheeks. They'd been griping about it privately ever since Dean produced it from the water damaged box of Christmas decorations.

Or at least, they had been griping.

Now both angel's were sitting on the couch, watching Dean attempt to groom the tiny angel's wings, spreading and splaying it's plumage out to frame the tip of the tree.

"Does he know what he's doing?" Gabriel muttered, under his breath to a red faced Castiel.

"I don't think so."

"Should we tell him?"

"It might ruin Christmas." Castiel looked utterly aghast at the idea.

"Fine...I guess we'll just sit here."

Gabriel crossed his legs uncomfortably just as Castiel plucked up a cushion and laid it decorously over his crotch.

"Merry Christmas, and a live peep show." Gabriel muttered. "I hate this holiday – first I'm a girl on all the cards – now this."

"It'll only take a few minutes, it's not exactly..." Castiel broke off as Dean finished molesting the tiny plastic angel and climbed down from the ladder. He crossed the room, intent on finding some more shiny foil or metal lanterns, and noted Castiel's messy hair with a sigh.

"Guess we might as well tidy you up too." Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "You're next, don't go anywhere."

Castiel turned bright red, just as Gabriel tore his Christmas sweater off violently and stormed towards the kitchen.

"Screw this, I'm telling Sam we're Jewish."


	3. Chapter 3

Bird Seed

Dean is not Martha-fucking-Stewart, ok?

He is however, bored out of his mind, stuck up at the winter cabin a whole two days before the rest of his family (meaning Sam and Jess) arrive for the holidays.

And there's bird seed in the pantry, and a jar of accumulated bacon grease that Sam has forbidden him to cook things in.

Spoilsport.

So Dean is doing the next best thing to something actually entertaining – making bird feeders.

He's melted the grease in a pan, and he's stirring seed in, ready to pack the mixture into empty yogurt pots as moulds, so he can hang them on string in the garden.

But he is not Martha Stewart.

After he's done with the bird feeders, leaving them to cool and set, he goes into the living room and has some much needed 'guy time' - No, not that, get your minds out of the gutter – he read three classic car magazines and watched the end of a movie about blowing shit up.

The reason he was avoiding the other kind of 'guy time' was partly to do with the bird feeders. They were in fact a ploy, to lure the creepy ass bird that was stalking him, away from the house.

Dean was not crazy, there was a bird, a light brown, blue breasted, devil-bird, that sat outside his bedroom window, and sang to him whenever he tried to jerk off.

Maybe Dean was a little crazy.

Which probably excused what he did three hours later – namely, forget that there was a devil-bird, freak out when he got down to happy-pants less-fun-time and heard tweeting, and hurl a shoe out the window.

Still, ten minutes later, as he stood (dressed again) in the snow outside, looking down at an unconscious bird and the fateful shoe – he had the grace to feel pretty bad about it.

And so began the weirdest Christmas Dean had ever had.


	4. Chapter 4

Diner

_Two Broke Girls is my pleasure, no 'guilty' about it. If I'm going to be poor I'm going to have laughs damn it! Here is some slightly related diner!dean fic. Because the porn had to arrive some time. _

Dean hates working at the diner on Christmas Eve.

He hates a lot of things – the broken boiler at his apartment, the kid who lets the air out of his tires when he has to park on the street, every bank teller he's ever met and pretty much anyone who wears a suit.

But Christmas Eve at _Lucky's _is as depressing as a night in Hell.

The patrons are loners, bums, single men with drinking problems, single women working the streets, kids with shitty families, runaways, burn outs.

It's like looking at his life choices through the years, only they keep wanting him to bring them fried turkey steak and mashed potatoes.

He'd sat with Sam in a diner like this one just after their parents died, and they'd eked out their dinners till they were stone cold. They'd had no money and no place to go, and neither one of them could remember a worse day in their lives.

Now he's an adult, he has this job, and he's clinging to it no matter how much it sucks. Because he needs the money sure, but more than that, he needs the control, the self respect of earning his own money.

He wipes his hands on his stained apron, trying to look like he doesn't care that there's sweat soaking the front and underarms of his grey tee, a coffee stain on his jeans. His hair feels greasy from working in the diner all day, and he's about ready to crash.

The one bright spot about Christmas Eve? It's skeleton staff time, so it's just him and Cas.

Cas is the short order cook, he smokes pinched up little cigarettes in the alley out back, wrapped in a bulky wool overcoat. He fries meat, puts together the plates of food with quick fingers, and he barely speaks English. Any words he does toss Dean's way are heavily accented, Russian, like his incomprehensible last name.

Didn't stop him from flirting like a boss though.

Dean supposes he should hate the attention, the sheer unrelenting force of Cas' appreciation, but it's nice. He kind of likes the thought that someone's looking him over, finding something worth commenting on. And it's refreshing to have it mean so little, it's so casual it's friendly.

He walks through the kitchen to grab a plate of fries, and feels the familiar swipe of the rag usually stuffed in the front pocket of Cas' apron. It snaps against his ass and he turns just in time to see Cas offering him a lopsided grin and a muttered epithet that Dean really wishes he understood.

Dean finds himself turning, plucking the rag form the counter, and pushing back into Cas's apron, tucking it against the hot skin of his hip.

Then he's off again, picking up the fries and going to serve them.

He catches Cas watching him through the serving hatch, white t-shirt sticking to him, fingers fiddling with the rag in his apron.

When Dean passes through the kitchen some time later, Cas looks at him, brow furrowing thoughtfully before he starts to speak. And although Dean doesn't understand the actual words, he gets the point clear enough when Cas rolls his eyes, stepping forward to put his hand on Dean's shoulder, sliding it down over his shirt and making sure to thumb his nipple before going lower, curling his fingers under the waistband of Dean's jeans.

For the rest of his shift, Dean has a twist of anticipation in his gut, and he's clumsier than usual because of it.

In the back alley behind the diner, Dean discovers that there's a fine sheen of grease on Cas from spending all day at the fryer, his mouth tastes like stale coffee, and under that the taste of every other mouth that ever was. He's loud as fuck when they get going, moaning and whimpering, sucking in air and biting his lip, but letting the cries out anyway. His back is pressed to the ugly brickwork, Dean pressed to his front, and both their hands shuffling between them, breathless and cold and dirty. The sounds their hands make are ugly, common, and familiar to the ear of any teenage guy with ten minutes to spare. Cas growls a lot of unintelligible words against Dean's ear, but the thing that finally does it for him is when the shorter man gives up trying to communicate, and nips his earlobe.

They finish in stuttering bursts, so much flaring pleasure, and then it's over, just like that.

Dean wipes his hand on the wall, tucks Cas away like the decent human being he is. He's about to do what's expected of him, duck his head, smile ruefully and somewhat ashamedly, before leaving the alley and never mentioning it again, when Cas carefully zips him up and touches his hand.

"Come home, with me." He says.

"Figures that's all the English you'd know." Dean mutters.

"It's not." Cas' smile is catlike in its smug pleasure, his accent thick as it ever was.

And that's how Dean ends up going back to Cas' messy apartment, and sleeping curled up with him on a futon, the sheets of which are decidedly not clean. They wake up the next morning, and somehow Dean doesn't end up going home. Cas turns on the tv, and they watch some old black and white move about a detective at a Christmas party where the duke was almost certainly the killer. They don't see the end because Cas is wearing a pale blue dress shirt he found on the floor, and nothing else, and all that naked leg stretched over his lap is too much for Dean to ignore.

Cas cooks Christmas dinner – two turkey sandwiches on proper bread, with stuffing, cranberry sauce and bacon.

Well fed and warm, Dean sees no reason to dispute the request when Castiel nudges him back to the futon to listen to some crappy rock music and get naked again. It's all so very candle-in-a-wine-bottle, come-up-to-my-dorm-room, that it makes him feel eighteen again.

When he finally goes home the next day, Dean lies down and tells himself that he cannot do this. He cannot have a relationship.

His mind asks him 'Why not?'

And he can't think of a good reason.

He kisses Castiel when he arrives at work the next day, and Cas thankfully kisses him back, before handing him a much thumbed English-Russian dictionary.

"Practice." He tells him.

Dean looks him in the eye, finding amusement and uncertainty there. He kisses Cas, then waits for him to turn around, before snapping his ass with a towel.


	5. Chapter 5

_Filth, Christmas and light bondage._

_Oh my?_

It's snowing outside as Dean tucks into his salad.

Well, 'tucks in' is sort of the wrong term. He picks at the leaves, listens to his stomach growl, and looks around at the almost empty restaurant. It's a crappy place, the kind without candles and nice silverware, where none of the plates match and there are only two types of wine – white, and red.

But it's the only place he knows that Zachariah, or anyone they know, won't be.

Dean catches his own eye in the reflective surface of the Formica table. He looks like the kind of guy he hated when he was in high school – designer white tee, with a v-neck, cashmere knit jersey, tanned in the middle of winter, hair all highlighted and pushed back with mousse. Actual fucking mousse. Forty-eight dollars a can mousse.

At eighteen he hadn't spent forty-eight dollars on food, in a month.

But being Zach's bitch required a certain look, and it wasn't like Dean minded sunning it beside the pool all day, or going to the spa to keep buffed and polished.

The salads however, are almost as unappetising as Zach's naked body, but no one ever said a trophy wife's life was easy.

Which was kind of why he was hiding out here for a while, rather than go back to the mansion for the traditional Christmas fucking that preceded him getting something from Cartier.

The bell over the door rings and Dean glances over as a guy in a dark overcoat comes in, flicking snow out of his hair irritably. He's the kind of guy who seems to suck the light out of the room he's in, creating a spot of sleek darkness, and Dean shrinks down into the booth, not wanting to engage with anyone. With one hand he prods his stomach under the table, trying to gauge if this new diet is working any.

Fucking skinny jeans. What kind of sadist...

The guy looks over, and Dean recognises Castiel Novak.

Ha. Oh, this was too good.

"Not pulling a sleigh this year?" He says, and Castiel turns around, jaw setting as he recognises Dean's voice.

"Shouldn't you be at home?" Castiel says, and his voice comes out like that of a jailer or a solemn knight in an old movie.

"Unlike you, I'm allowed out." Dean retorts.

The server comes around the bar and brings Castiel's drink order with him, a glass of scotch on a tray.

"Would you like to sit here?" The waiter asks.

Castiel glances around at the empty restaurant.

"Yes."

The server puts the glass down on the table. "I'll be back to take your order."

Castiel unknots his scarf with practiced fingers, shrugging out of his overcoat with the grace of a lynx. Dean rolls his eyes, unimpressed.

"Enough with the strip tease, Master's not here." He drawls.

Castiel narrows his eyes, but he sits down anyway and takes a sip of his drink. Dean notes the bruises on his pale wrists, and the thin black collar around Castiel's neck.

"He makes you wear that thing all the time?"

"Yes."

"Creepy." Dean flicks a few salad leaves over and tries to work up an appetite.

"No more so than the hustler pants you're wearing." Castiel comments dryly.

Dean glares at Castiel, who's dressed head to toe in black – black shoes, black pants, black shirt buttoned to his throat. He looks like an undertaker.

"Least I don't look like an undertaker."

"No, you look like Pamela Anderson, without the rack." Castiel's eyes are hooded, and he's rolling his words in that serpentine way that Alistair does, that makes Dean's skin crawl whenever the two of them visit Zachariah.

"You're starting to sound like that perv."

Castiel looks sulkily into his scotch.

"It's got to suck, being some creep's willing little slave." Dean is feeling more than a little spiteful, given his own attempt at avoiding any thought of Zach is going so badly.

"I would say the same of you."

Dean looks at him then, really looks at him. Are they really the same? Castiel playing the sub for Alistair, Dean being with Zachariah. Ok, so it's all creepy...but Dean isn't doing anything weird. Just sex, and for that he gets to live in a nice house in a very nice neighbourhood, and he never has to tape the soles back on his shoes, or steal to pay rent, or go hungry...

Well, except he is. But it's different.

"Ok, well, we've gotten that out of the way." Dean mutters. "So you can just...skip on back to wherever your handler's hiding."

"Alistair isn't here."

Castiel actually looks shifty.

"Really?" Dean says sceptically. "You're just...out alone?"

"Yes."

"Thought that wasn't allowed."

"Alistair...doesn't know that I've left my room."

"You mean, cell."

Castiel looks up at him. "I'm not his prisoner."

"No, you volunteered to be...whipped and chained up, and to wear a freaking collar while he fucks you." Dean can't keep the disgust out of his voice.

"A chain is still a chain, whether it comes from Cartier or not." Castiel snaps.

"Sir?" The waiter reappears with a pad and pencil. "Your order?"

Castiel doesn't take his eyes off of Dean. "Cheese steak sandwich. Medium rare with garlic mayo, mustard and bacon. Fries and onion rings."

"Anything else?" the guy asks, unaware of the glare Dean is throwing Castiel's way.

"A glass of water. With lemon."

The guy walks away and Dean smoulders impotently over his salad.

"Dick." He mutters.

Castiel favours him with a long look. "I didn't say it was for me."

Dean frowns.

Castiel reaches up and carefully removes the collar from around his neck. The skin underneath is unmarked, the leather so soft and supple, buttery and expensive. Castiel puts it down on the table and slides it over towards Dean.

"Put this on." He says quietly.

Dean swallows, the pit of his stomach roiling with something besides hunger.

"Why?" He asks, finally.

Castiel just watches him with an intensity all his own.

Feeling lightheaded without knowing why, Dean picks up the collar, intending to just hand it back. But somehow he ends up drawing the leather through his fingers, and then he raises it to his throat, clasping it carefully and then letting his hands drop back to the table. The collar is snug, intended for Castiel's more delicate throat. It doesn't choke him, but he can feel it there, like a hand on the back of his neck that he doesn't dare shake off.

They sit, watching each other, until the waiter returns with the food.

Castiel takes his glass of water, and he slides the full platter of fried food over to Dean once the waiter has departed.

Dean looks down at it, and tries to find some kind of self control, but it smells amazing.

"Three hundred, and sixty four days of the year...you belong to him." Castiel says quietly. "And I belong to...Alistair." He says with no small amount of distaste. "For one night...why don't you try belonging to me?"

Dean's heart is beating way too fast, and his pulse flutters against the leather like a mad thing.

"And you?" He asks, after a few seconds of painful silence.

"That's not the game." Castiel says quietly. "You're mine...and I'm free."

When Dean doesn't move, Castiel picks up a fry and holds it up.

"Aren't you tired, of doing what he wants?"

Dean leans forwards, and bites the fry. Castiel feeds it to him deftly, then sits back and licks his fingers clean.

"Good." He says, and Dean feels a hitch in his heartbeat that should not be there, not here, with Castiel of all people.

"I thought you were submissive." Dean manages.

"I'm a lot of things." Castiel murmurs. "Not all of them...are appreciated."

Dean sees it then. Castiel may have volunteered for the whips, the chains and the cages...but he hadn't wanted to be trapped – not literally, in his relationship with Alistair.

Maybe they were the same.

Castiel stands up, then drops carefully to his knees beside the table.

Dean looks down at him, surprised. "What are you...?"

Castiel looks up. "Keep eating Dean. Don't stop."

It's an order, not a reassurance, and as Castiel disappears under the table, hidden from the rest of the restaurant by the booth and table cloth, Dean feels a spike of nervousness. What the hell is happening?

When he feels Castiel's hand on his fly, Dean gets a pretty good clue of what's about to happen, and he sucks in a breath.

Castiel taps his thigh warningly.

Dean picks up a fry.

Castiel gently releases Dean from his underwear, touching him lightly. The first touch of his mouth is feather light, and it goes all the way up Dean's spine.

It takes fifty minutes for him to eat everything on the plate, and as he takes each bite he feels Castiel's mouth on him, licking and sucking so gently that he can't help melting into the booth, groaning quietly as he eats. The feeling is incredible, like Castiel is licking into his mouth, hot and intimate, but stimulating all the parts of him that Dean knows so well himself.

He licks salt and seasoning from his lips, feeling hot breath against him, Castiel's kittenish tongue lapping unexpectedly against his shaft, tracing the line of him all the way to the head and collecting the liquid there with a soft moan that vibrates through Dean's entire body.

Castiel must be timing him, or something, because as Dean nears the end of the meal, the pressure intensifies, Castiel starts to push him out of relaxation and on towards orgasm, pressing forwards until Dean can feel Castiel exhaling through his nose, his throat opening to him, hot and wet and flexing until finally Dean can't hold out any more, he slaps a palm across his own mouth and moans, his other hand clenching on the table as he comes, feeling Castiel swallow him down.

When it's over, and Castiel slides away to regain his seat, Dean can't feel his legs, his body is buzzing, his belly warm and full, and he feels so relaxed he could just curl up and sleep.

Castiel sits down and takes a sip of his water, with lemon.

He sets the glass aside, and only then does he look at Dean's flushed face, and the black collar still circling his neck as he pants. Dean reaches up to remove the collar.

"Leave it." Castiel says softly.

Dean does. He swallows, and waits for whatever Castiel's going to say next.

"Dean, I'm going to settle the check...go wait in the alley so I can fuck you."

Dean surprises himself when he gets up and goes without complaint.

Castiel manages to keep the cold facade up for the entire time they're in the alley, and Dean doesn't really mind. Compared to Zach's clumsy dirty talk, it's actually a blessing, and he at least gets the feeling that Castiel is there with_ him_, rather than just his body.

Afterwards, When Dean is done clinging to the wall, shuddering out another orgasm far too soon, and feeling Castiel thrust smoothly through his own climax. Cas stops him at the mouth of the alley. He takes back his collar, and fastens it with the air of someone preparing going back down a mine.

"Hey...we should..." Dean can't really think of an end to that sentence. He's a fucking trophy wife, and Castiel is some guy's plaything. Both of them have masters to please.

Castiel looks at him for a second, then moves forwards and hugs him so tightly that Dean thinks he won't ever let go. He kind of doesn't want him to, so he puts his arms around Castiel and hugs back.

"You're worth more, than whatever he gives you." Castiel tells him, perfectly seriously.

"Well...you're more than whatever kinky things you do." Dean tells him.

Castiel looks at him like he's not so sure that's true.

"You not just a sub, or a...switch? whatever...you're a guy Cas, a freaking person, and you rock."

Castiel's smile is so sudden, and so vulnerable, that Dean wants to take care of it forever.

The next day, at a pawn show two towns over, the clerk barely looks at the two guys trading in a heap of Cartier watches, and a leather collar with a diamond clasp.

It's enough to get them a little cookie cutter house in the burbs, just as cute and well kept as everyone one elses.

Just in time for Christmas.


	6. Chapter 6

Fireworks

A hush came over the crowd as the first fireworks started to go off, spattering the sky in gold flecks and trails of white light.

It looked as if extra stars were being launched, bursting over the black sky like comets, trailing like lonely distress flares launched over the ocean, or battle fields.

Castiel looked up at the sky, experiencing the new, human, sensations of being cold and small.

He shivers.

"That's what I used to look like." He whispers.

Dean takes off his scarf and wraps it around Castiel's bare neck, then reaches around him and puts his hands into Castiel's coat pockets.

Castiel looks at the fireworks, so cold and far away in the night sky, too far to touch, or be held, and thinks that perhaps being human won't be so bad after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Bird Seed 2

Dean put the unconscious bird into a fleece lined glove and then put the glove into an old shoebox.

After a couple of seconds deliberation, he added cotton balls and torn up newspaper to the box.

This exhausted everything he knew about taking care of tiny living things.

Even his sea monkeys had died for crying out loud.

He made himself a cup of coco, added a generous splash of whisky, then kept adding whisky until all the hot chocolate was gone, and he was feeling manly again.

At that point, the bird woke up, discovered it was trapped, and started to twitter angrily from the inside of the box.

Dean slipped the lid open and glared down at it.

The bird glared back with its little, black-beady, eyes.

Dean fought the urge to shout 'Devil Bird!' and throw the lid back on the box.

It was a pretty funky looking bird. Dean had known it was brown and had a white chest with a blue stripe down it, but on closer inspection, he saw that though the body and scruffy tail feathers were light brown, its wings, and the puffy, fluffy feathers on its head, were black.

The bird made a 'pipping' sound and fluttered up and down, unable to take flight. It stopped, cocked its head and scuffled its wing with its beak. Then it hopped again. Still no luck flying.

The bird looked at him as if to say 'This is all your fault.'

Dean reached down and picked the bird up, feeling how strongly it fluttered in his closed palm.

"Shhh." He muttered, then realised he was talking to a bird.

But the bird stopped fluttering, and when Dean opened his hand, he saw that it was waiting patiently for him to do something.

Dean picked up a chunk of lard-seed mixture, and held it out in apology.

The bird looked at it, looked at him, and then snatched the tiny piece of food and gobbled it down.

"Good?"

The bird fluttered and tweeted, nudging at his hand for more.

Dean picked up another piece.


	8. Chapter 8

Military School 

_I have so much ammunition for a verse of this story...but I thought I'd stick this Christmas snippet up, just in case I didn't get around to writing the full story Fair warning – step-sibling sex in this story._

It's their first Christmas as one big happy family.

And Dean has just gotten kicked out of military school.

Castiel's gotten used to his step-brother not being around. He hasn't seen Dean since John married his Anna, Castiel's mother, because Dean was at military school even then – he was only back for the wedding itself. Castiel's a little scared of him, even though his Mom tells him that Dean's a good boy, Castiel can't quite believe it.

For one thing, good boys didn't get sent to military school.

And for another – Dean was angry all the time, and pretty violent to boot. At the wedding he'd called Anna, Castiel's mother, a bitch, and Castiel had gotten into a fight with him. Dean had damn near torn his arm off, wrenching it behind his back and slamming him against the wall of the bathroom they were in. He'd gotten really close to Castiel's neck and growled, "Really? That's it...that's all you've got?..." and Castiel had felt teeth against his pulse for a second, before Dean's uncle Bobby came in and broke it up.

Dean was crazy, and Castiel wanted to make it to seventeen without getting murdered.

But then, Dean probably wanted to make the most of these last two years of not being charged as an adult.

So the chances were evenly split that Castiel wouldn't live past Christmas.

He didn't really have anyone else to hang out with to avoid the house. Castiel loved his computers, more than people, the humming modems, swishing fans and steady thrum of the flickering screens. He was working his way through all the programming languages, kept a blog about his projects, and spent long hours constructing endless reams of code on the six monitors in his bedroom.

Dean loved loud music, louder TV, smoking, drinking and shooting fireworks off of the roof of the pool house.

So, Castiel was already aware that they were not a match as step-siblings, when he came home from his last day of school and found Dean lying on the bed, in Castiel's room, looking up at the six monitors and massaging his groin through the white briefs he had on.

Which were all he had on.

Castiel stood, frozen in the doorway, looking at Dean, sprawled over the double mattress and it's dark blue sheets. There was a lot to Dean, in terms of his size, the bulky muscle and long limbs that made him up. But Castiel had never seen him practically naked before. This was perhaps more revealing than total nudity, in some perverse way. He could see the shape of Dean's erect cock, where it curved up towards his belly, held down by the tight, translucent fabric. The shadow of its head was unmistakeable, made more so by the damp spot of fabric there.

Castiel realises that he's staring.

Dean lifts the hand from his groin, waves in sarcastic greeting. His other arm is behind his head, his body stretched lazily.

"Hey Cas, how's it going?"

"...what are you doing in here? Get out." Castiel says, when he can form words again. His fingers grip his shirt cuffs where they protrude from his sweater, a nervous habit.

"No." Dean says pointedly, like Cas is being unbearably slow in realising his own weakness.

Castiel takes a step forwards, and glances at the monitors.

His heart freezes.

"Great collection by the way." Dean says, hand returning to his cock lazily. "Really, really good..." his eyes fall closed for a second.

Castiel looks at six screens worth of porn. He has a fairly large collection, its pointless denying it, but he'd thought he'd hidden his downloads pretty well. He'd been wrong, apparently.

"That's private."

"Duh." Dean smirks at him. "Twinks and light bondage...not to mention your little machine kink...guess you don't want Mommy dearest to know about that." Dean points. "Because that right there? Is fucked up...Cassy I'm surprised at you."

Castiel feels himself flush, looking quickly away from the central screen, on which a lithe eighteen year old is being pounded by a motorised dildo. Shame tingles in his gut, mostly because of Dean's words, and not because of the images on screen, which are fairly damning in and of themselves.

"Seriously, why did you think Dad sent me to military school?" Dean flicks his eye to the screen, then back to Castiel. "Probably smart keeping it to yourself...shit, I didn't even guess." Dean laughs to himself quietly, then shifts a little and pats the bed lightly with the hand he's been busily caressing himself with. "Come lie down."

Castiel stays stock still in the doorway.

Dean sighs. "Christ, first time I catch you with some evidence that you're actually human, don't spaz out - come here."

Castiel inches forwards, driven only by fear of Dean and the brain-disconnecting weirdness of the situation they're in. He climbs up onto the bed, socked feet resting on the comforter, and lies down next to Dean.

"Better." Dean mutters, looking up at the screen, where the boy is flushed, pouring sweat and crying out as he beats off, ass getting hammered by the propelled rubber cock. Castiel looks at the screen as well, unable to keep his eyes away from it. The sounds over the speakers are turned up so loud, and the monitor is large, dominating most of the wall.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Dean fingers his cock through his school slacks.

Dean rolls onto his side, one arm sliding under Castiel's neck as he leans over his step-brother. Castiel shivers when he feels Dean's breath on his throat.

"Relax."

Dean's mouth touches his skin, and it might as well be a live wire. Castiel's hips rise from the mattress, and he whimpers at the feel of soft, damp lips on his artery, the nip of teeth as Dean breathes out against his skin.

"Keep watching." Dean murmurs, and his fingers tug down the zipper on Cas's pants, navigating my touch as they slide into his underwear and pull out his cock, exploring it blindly.

Castiel fights to keep his eyes on the screen, one hand finding its way helplessly into Dean's hair, pulling as Dean continues to suck at his neck, moaning, soft, porn worthy little sounds. His fingers, strong and capable, trace Castiel's bare cock from root to tip, stroking the crisp hair which he knows must be dark as that which is tickling his cheek, and following the line of it to the shallow indent just before the head, which he slides his finger around, just to hear Castiel fall apart. He's rewarded with a deep groan; Castiel's fingers tighten in his hair and Dean growls against his pulse point.

He curls his fingers under Castiel's cock, feeling the slight groove under the plump head, rubbing it and following it up, catching the flared edge of the tip and following it around, once, twice, until Castiel shudders and sobs out a low sound.

Only then does he slip one finger up, touching it to the slit at the very crown of Cas's dick, finding a tiny amount of wetness there. He strokes it, the skin smooth and fine, feeling it jump in his hand. Another drop wells against his finger, and Castiel breathes quickly, fighting for control as Dean withdraws his hand, bringing it up to taste the fluid on his fingers.

Dean allows himself his first look down to where his step-brother's pants are open, his cock now hard and pointing upwards, reddened as if scorched by his gaze. The tip produces more pre-come, and Dean watches the bead of pearly liquid as it rolls thickly down over the head, dipping into the crease below, and then on down the shaft.

He licks his fingers, relishing the first salty tang of Castiel on his tongue. Dean licks down his fingers, wetting his palm before returning it to Castiel's aching flesh, burying he face against the smaller teen's neck again, smelling his clean skin.

Castiel is lost, frantically trying to breathe and control himself, even as he thrusts wantonly into Dean's curled fingers. Dean's fist jerks down each time he thrusts up, and the tight wriggle of his fingers, the scrape of teeth along his jugular, has Castiel on the edge in seconds. His toes curl, feet scuffling desperately on the bed, his fingers drag on Dean's short, dirty blond hair, his back arches and he can feel his release getting away from him – spilling into every part of his body and throbbing with hot urgency.

"There you are." Dean mutters, and Castiel comes in two, hard jerks, biting into his lip and not able to remember when his eyes snapped shut.

He shakes, and he can feel Dean's hand on him, still squeezing his cock, so firmly that he can feel himself twitching in Dean's palm, feel his blood zinging close to the surface, right up against Dean's come covered hand.

Castiel's panting too hard to speak, too strung out to move as Dean slides away from him, getting to his knees and kneeling over Castiel's lax body.

He pulls himself out of his underwear, where the damp spot has spread, with one hand. With the other he pushes Cas's shirt and sweater up, his pants down, until he's naked from knees to chest.

Dean fixes his dark green eyes on Castiel's skin, one hand wrapped around his cock, his hips twitching impatiently as he strokes. It's hot, too hot for him to last, looking down at Castiel, good little Castiel, utterly ruined, covered in come, skin all flushed, a hickey blooming on his neck and his badly hidden porn still playing, filling the air with sounds.

Dean looks up, and see's Castiel watching him through heavy lidded eyes. He strokes faster, breath hitching with the effort. And then Castiel reaches up, his hands touching Dean's hips, cradling them in his sweat dampened palms. Dean jerks forwards into the pressure, head snapping back as he feels pleasure go through him, from his toes all the way up to his scalp - tingling and hot.

"Come on me."

Dean thinks he's imagined it, the breathy, barely there gasp of Castiel's voice.

But then he looks down, sees Castiel's eyes on him, feels the squeeze on his hips.

And that's it, Dean lets go, painting a white streak over Castiel's skin, watching the muscles of his stomach clench as he arches, shifting as Dean coaxes the rest of his release out onto Castiel's belly.

The dark haired teen whimpers, and Dean collapses onto the bed beside him.

This is going to make Christmas dinner seriously awkward.


	9. Chapter 9

Bird Seed 3

Dean feeds the bird until he gets bored, and then he makes himself some dinner and sits at the kitchen island, watching the bird stack cotton balls and fluffing newspapers into a little nest. It would be cute if the bird wasn't taking it so seriously, scrutinising each piece with its little black eyes and hopping back and forth to judge the overall shape.

When the nest is deemed worthy, the bird flaps up onto it, scruffles down into it, puffing up its feathers and dipping its beak to its chest before raising its head officiously.

Then it starts to sing, looking up at Dean, and singing its little heart out.

Without the shock factor, the bird song is actually quite nice, deep and low and soft, like cooing. Dean nurses a beer at the kitchen island, looking down at the bird and listening to it as it sings insistently, occasionally flapping it's wings a little, bobbing it's head whilst maintaining eye contact.

It's kind of nice, weird, but nice.

When Dean finishes his beer, he picks up some seed, puts it into the box, and then, feeling really dumb, says 'Night' before walking out of the kitchen.

The bird lets out a call after him, which Dean does not take to mean 'Goodnight'.

Absolutely not.

Dean throws himself onto his bed and falls asleep almost instantly.

He wakes up to find that it's snowed overnight.

Ok, understatement.

There can literally be no snow left in the entire world, because it is all on or around the cabin. It's most of the way over the windows, and the front door is stuck fast.

Worse still, there's a message from Sam on the answer machine – a crackly, fading in and out call that says that he and Jess can't drive in the snow, so they're turning back to spend Christmas at a hotel they passed a while ago. Sam's sorry, and they'll try to make it in a few days.

Dean discovers that there's no electricity, and that the phone, not to mention the internet, aren't working.

He' stuck, alone, with no TV, no _porn, _and no heating besides the fireplace.

And he's going to be there for days.

He goes into the kitchen, finds the box with the bird in it, and carries it into the living room. The bird is hunkered down into its nest, practically vibrating with cold. Dean reaches down and strokes its black, puffily feathered head. He's surprised when the bird just chirrups softly and doesn't freak out.

Clearly, he has a natural gift when it comes to dealing with animals.


	10. Chapter 10

Bird Seed 4

Sometime during his second day of captivity by snow, Dean is snoozing on the floor on some couch cushions, wrapped in a quilt and trying not to feel the cold so much, when something hits him in the face.

He rolls to one side and growls in his sleep.

Something else strikes his cheek, then another, until Dean sits up and glares.

The bird on his chest glares back. Then nudges one of the snickers bars it's been pelting him with, towards him.

"What the hell?" Dean mutters.

The bird tweets bossily.

Dean unwraps the bar and takes a bite. The bird flutters a little, and Dean takes this to mean that it's pleased.

This is when he realises that he's sleeping in a nest.

It's not a very big nest, it's more a little circle of cotton balls, bits of twig from Sam's fancy dry arrangements, and feathers from the pillow that's still leaking down through little birdy peck holes across the room.

"What did you do?" Dean says to the bird accusingly.

The bird chirrups and dashes off to bring back more feathers.

Dean looks at it helplessly. He knows he should probably stop the crazy devil-bird from putting him in a nest and freaking FEEDING HIM. But...he's kind of warm and he doesn't really want to move.

So he lies down and goes back to sleep for a few hours.

And when he wakes up, the bird has made the sides of the 'nest' about three inches high, and decorated it with popcorn from the garlands on the tree, as well as sparkly tinsel strands, candy bars and bits of foil from the waste paper basket.

Dean glances down and realises that the bird is currently roosting in his cupped palm, on a fold of quilt.

He looks down at the little bird currently nuzzled up against his thumb, and wonders if he's going crazy.

Then he eats a snickers one handed and decides that he really doesn't mind.

When the bird wakes up, he feeds it some popcorn.


	11. Chapter 11

_So, I thought for a while about what fic to put up today, and I was going to do 'the bird story as planned' but my roommate said I should put up more smut So, here is part one of...well, light bondage is now a theme :P Sorry if this came off as bad or silly._

_Also, for BHJ, and her thing for sweater vests _

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on _

Dean had thought long and hard about what to give Castiel for Christmas.

He knew it wasn't really about Christmas, it was a lot more important than that. But 'Christmas' was a better reason than, 'because I thought I'd lost you, again. And you came back, and I don't know how to get back to normal after you went crazy and killed a bunch of people'.

Castiel had been God. There was no coming back from that. He'd also been dead, and well, whilst pretty much everyone of Dean's acquaintance had come back from _that _at some point or another, Cas included, this last resurrection had been such an outside chance that Dean had made his peace with the angel's death.

Getting him back had been a miracle, and Dean didn't toss that word around a lot.

But it had been. Cas had literally woken from the dead – three days after Dean came back to his hotel room to find the naked ex-angel tucked up in his bed, unconscious and as neat and tidy as if his mother had just brushed his hair.

A gift in itself.

Now though, now things were strained. Castiel couldn't look him in the eye after trying to dominate him (and everyone else on the planet) and Dean couldn't think of any way to broach the silence that had surrounded the dark heart of Castiel since the war in heaven.

It was too much, too bad, to recover from.

But Dean was trying goddamn it.

It would be easier if, like Sam, he could call Castiel a friend. But, for all that he was friendly, he could never call Castiel just his friend. It was a realisation several years in the works, and each time he'd had to redefine exactly what Castiel was to him, Dean had gone just a little bit more out of his depth.

And, when he realised what he had to give Castiel, more than that, what he wanted to give Castiel – it cracked any illusions on his part as to how he saw the ex-angel.

There was a lot between them, and in the past few years, the gratitude and camaraderie of those early, apocalyptic times had undeniably grown darker. Castiel had lied to him, Dean had torn Castiel down and berated him for a year, Castiel had made deals with demons, and so had Dean. They had grown distant, and desperate, and Castiel's final move on Purgatory had hurt Dean deeply – as it was a denial of the bond he'd thought they'd shared.

And then, the dark days of Castiel's divinity had come to pass.

And then his death.

As Dean enters the hotel room, eyes finding Castiel reading on the bed, he wonders what it must have been like – to have all that power, to want all that power, and then to lose it. To become worthless in your own eyes – weak and barely tolerated.

"Cas?" He says, and he's nervous, despite himself.

Castiel looks up, not meeting his eyes as usual.

"You're back." He says quietly, like he expected Dean to leave him for good.

"'Course I am." Dean fidgets.

Cas' eyes take in the beige fabric wrapped around Dean and confusion overtakes his features.

"Why are you wearing that?"

Dean looks down at the trench coat that he'd borrowed. He hoped that he was absolutely ready for this.

"I needed..." His mouth dries up. "I wanted to..."

Castiel senses that a serious conversation is about to occur.

"Please don't make me talk about it." He asks quietly. "Dean...I was wrong, I was...bad...and I want to forget, to make amends...please don't..."

"You liked it." Dean says.

Castiel's eyes find his this time, surprised and appalled.

"No...I..."

"You liked, being powerful...being in control." Dean swallows. "Because...being an angel, you didn't have much power, even over yourself...and I...was an ass...and you liked...teaching me a lesson."

Castiel shakes his head mutely, but his cheeks are growing redder.

"That's ok you know." Dean tells him quietly. "I mean, people feel like that a lot – and maybe you did a lot of bad stuff, when you were that powerful – but that doesn't mean that everything you felt, when you were...God...was bad."

"I was a monster." Castiel says quietly. "I can _never _be allowed to be like that again."

"What if I let you?" Dean can feel the heat in his body now, and he wonders how much of this is for Cas...and how much is for him. For the deeply ingrained _need _for someone to have that kind of power over him. The do or die command. "What if...I let you take control...and then after, I take it right back...safe, consensual...private."

"What are you..."

Dean undoes the trench coat, nervous fingers finding the belt awkward. Still, as he opens the coat, slides the fabric from his shoulders, his arms, and drops it to the floor, he feels sure. Castiel's expression only proves that he was right, a potent, predatory mixture of desire, authority and astounded affection.

Dean tucks his hands into the pockets of the uniform pants, feeling the slightly too tight school sweater vest pull across his chest. His heart beats hard under the catholic school crest on his blazer.

"Hello Sir."


	12. Chapter 12

Gifts part 2

Dean can't stop panting, even after Castiel's careful fingers have loosed the tie from where it's noosed around his throat, and he can breathe again. The former angel, former God, kisses the reddened skin that is already beginning to bruise.

Dean feels his pulse slowly return to normal, his burning lungs relaxing as the ringing in his ears subsides.

That had been...intense, to say the least.

Castiel is visibly shaking as he climbs off of Dean, letting the hunter roll onto his back. The sheets under him are marked very obviously, and Dean thinks he blew out a lot of synapses when he came, Castiel shooting deep inside of him and drawing the tie tight as he did so, until searing white light flashed up behind Dean's eyes.

He curls his body almost subconsciously against Castiel's, feeling the other man touch the side of his face gently.

"I didn't hurt you?" He asks quietly.

Dean starts to speak, produces no sound, coughs, and then says. "No, you didn't."

Castiel's breathing is still ragged, and Dean can remember, with a tangible ache, what it felt like to have Castiel's gasping, moaning body over his, one hand pressing his head down into the pillows, the other drawing on the makeshift noose. He shivers, and feels warmth run through him.

Dean had suspected that Castiel would like it.

But he hadn't known that he'd like it too.

Feeling controlled, _held _by someone, in the balance...it had never crossed his mind as anything other than a pointless imitation of the real danger he was in almost constantly. But he hadn't factored in the trust he had in Castiel, the trust he was beginning to get back, the way it felt to have faith in him, to take him to the edge, to make him feel good – and to know that Castiel wouldn't let him fall.

"It wasn't...too strange?" Castiel asks, almost too quiet to hear.

"I liked it." Dean confesses, almost as quietly.

He opens his eyes and finds Castiel looking at him. Finds that Castiel looks just like he always did, mildly curious and strangely enraptured. He's glad of that, the way everything has changed, and yet stayed the same underneath.

"It felt good, that it was you." Dean says. "We could...do it again, if you wanted, some time."

Castiel's eyes soften, insecurity blending into relief. His gaze flicks to Dean's mouth and back, and Dean moves forwards a little, lips parting.

They kiss, and Dean knows for certain that this, this was not a gift. The bed, the tie, this one time. Was not the best gift for Castiel.

The fact that there was a 'next time'? That there was this time, now, where they could touch, and kiss, and know that neither one of them was going anywhere? That was what he'd wanted to say, to give. And now he'd managed it. Without really saying anything at all.


	13. Chapter 13

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on _

Santa Costume 1

"How could you leave it till _Christmas Eve?" _

"I had other stuff to do."

"Like what?"

_Yeah, like what Dean?_ Some part of his mind asked. _There had better be a good reason why you let it get to Christmas Eve without renting a Santa costume for Christmas morning at Sam's._

Well, there had been the last few levels of GTA4,

Then the first few levels of Saints Row 3...

Then...ten cans of red bull and a pimp uprising later...he honestly had no idea where the time had gone.

"I can go get one now?" He tries.

Sam pouts at him, like he really really wants to be the next Buffy.

"On CHRISTMAS EVE."

"I can do it."

"Well, by all means try – but when Bobby and John wake up and Uncle Dean is here, but Santa isn't – there will be hell to pay."

Sam has gotten far too bitchy for his own good, but then Dean supposes it's to be expected. Being the single parent of adopted kids was hard, especially given how broken up Sam had been when Luc left him two years before. Dean kind of owed it to him to be Fantastic-Uncle-Dean, if only to take some of the pressure off of Sam as Dad-Mom-Tooth Fairy-Santa-God and Nurse all at once.

"I'm way cooler than Santa." Dean points out.

"Just go." Sam tells him.

Dean goes.

_Sam cannot believe that Dean left it to Christmas eve before finding a Santa costume. It was the one thing he'd asked his brother to do, and he'd let him down. Sam was usually quite forgiving, but it was Christmas, and he had two kids to cater for, and he was not in the forgiving mood. _

_Fortunately, Dean made a hasty exit, and left Sam with some time to himself to cool off. _

_Unfortunately, just as Sam was sitting down to curl some ribbon for the boy's gifts, a knock came at the door._

"_Dean, I swear if you forgot your keys..."_

_He opens the door to find an elf on his porch._

_An actual, green tight wearing, bell tipped shoes, elf, looking up at him from his diminutive five foot stance, and brushing some long brown hair out of his face. _

"_Would you be interested in donating any canned goods this evening?" The elf asks._

"_Huh?"_

"_Canned goods. For the shelter?" The elf huffs._

"_Uhhh...I'll go look." Sam leaves the front door and goes to check the kitchen, pulling down some cans of soup and stew to give to the elf. But, when he turns around, the little guy has followed him into the kitchen._

"_Nice place." The elf comments, sitting down at the breakfast bar and helping himself to one of Santa's cookies._

"_Those are for Santa."_

_The elf raises an eyebrow. "I'm Jewish." He bites into the cookie. "He can have a cookie when I get my twenty-nine years worth of presents." _

_Sam puts the cans on the counter. _

"_If you're Jewish, why the..." He gestures at the costume._

"_Part of the 'fun' of fundraising." The elf rolls his eyes. "And my menorah costume always gets caught in doors."_

_Sam smiles despite himself. "Well, it's good that you're still helping out, with the Christmas stuff."_

"_Sure, I like charity stuff – though Christmas is really my brother's holiday." He grins. "I'm all about Easter." _

"_Thought you were Jewish?"_

"_I don't need to be Christian to love the crass commercialism...and the chocolate."_

"_So...do you do this kind of thing then too?" Sam asks. "Go door to door as a bunny asking for donations?"_

_The elf looks at him with amusement._

"_I could come by just for you if you want."_

_Sam promptly blushes and looks down at the counter._

"_Well, that's just adorable." The elf grins. "If these tights weren't so hard to get off I'd be on you right now trying to..."_

"_I have kids." Sam hisses._

"_Wife?"_

"_No."_

"_Girlfriend?"_

_Sam shakes his head._

"_Boyfriend?"_

"_He left me...us." He says, indicating the upstairs bedroom with a head tilt. _

_The elf grins. "So...I guess I better get my cottontail out of storage...start practicing my hop."_

_Sam smiles, and this time he doesn't look away. _


	14. Chapter 14

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on _

_More bird-verse tomorrow, but still more costume story on the way _

Santa Costume 2

The Costume Barn is an unholy annexe of Satan's own personal hell-mall.

Dean has been searching the jumbled shelves, rusting racks and piles and piles of random crap, for over an hour, and the closest he has come to anything resembling 'white Christmas' was a Woodstock-Hippy costume with some very suspicious crotch stains.

That, and when he'd asked the clerk if he had a Santa suit, the guy had just laughed, and then told him he might have something 'in the back'.

And now Dean was looking, 'in the back' and all he'd found was about a hundred-thousand skeevy old costumes, and one creepy dude.

The dude in question is also picking through costumes, but with less irritation than Dean, and slightly more curiosity. He's kind of scruffy and pale, and...well, Dean's never seen a real life drug addict, but he's pretty sure that this is what he should look out for.

The guy looks up suddenly, like Dean came into the room sixty seconds, rather than minutes ago.

"What are you looking for?" He asks.

Dean, not wanting to be rude, but feeling ridiculous, says "Santa."

The guy looks at him.

"He lives at the north pole." He whispers, conspiratorially.

Dean glares.

The guy giggles to himself.

"I found a Santa suit ten minutes ago." He says, holding up what is indeed a Santa suit, one of the manmade fibre, itchy fake beard, glued on belt buckle kind of deals.

"Uhhh...great. Do you, want it?" Dean asks carefully.

"Nope...I'm not really looking."

Dean blinks.

"Can I have it?"

The guy looks at him, considering.

"For a price."

Dean waits.

"Which would be?" He finally demands.

"You put the suit on and do me in the alley." The guy says.

Dean feels like the floor's been yanked away from him.

"Say again?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on _

Bird Seed 5

When Sam and Jess reach the cabin, a week late, they think the weirdest thing is that Dean hasn't come out to clear the impala of snow.

Until they get inside that is.

After that it's a tie, Jess thinks that the weirdest thing is the fact that Dean's sleeping in a nest in the living room. Sam is very much of the opinion that it's the fact that he's sleeping with a bird, that won't let them anywhere near his brother.

"Dean?" Sam asks, trapped in the doorway by an indignantly twittering puffball of feathers. "Do you want to explain..."

"Down Cas." Dean mutters, and the bird flutters back to him, perching on Dean's shoulder and keeping a wary eye on Sam.

"...What is going on?" Sam asks.

"The heat went out, electric too." Dean mutters, struggling out of the quilt that's balled up in the centre of a five inch high wall of sticks and feathers.

"So...you decided to become the birdman of California?"

"No, I hit him with a shoe, now I'm taking care of him till he can fly again."

"He just flew."

"I know that." Dean says, standing up, the bird still on his shoulder. "But if Cas wants to stay, he can stay...did you bring any food?"

"Yeah we...Cas?"

"After the birdseed box." Dean tells him. "Cas Crisp Seed Mix. Kind of felt weird to keep calling him devil-bird."

Cas chirps approvingly.

"I need a drink." Sam tells Jess, who nods, speechless.

"Sweet – Cas likes malted milk." Dean says.

"You're...keeping him?" Sam catches himself. "It?"

"Well, he made me a nest, I think he's decided that I kind of belong to him." Dean lowers his voice. "I only hit him with the shoe 'cause he kept singing at me while I was, you know..." He makes a hand gesture. "I think he was trying to woo me."

"But he's a...bird. Like a teeny tiny...

"Actually." Dean says, as he and Cas follow Sam into the kitchen. "I googled him, he's a 'lesser spotted, blue breasted, suited bobtail."

"So?" Sam says.

"He's rare." Dean says smugly. "And, when he grows up, he's going to be gorgeous."

Sam eyes the tiny bird, which is puffing up with pride, doubtfully.

"He's a little bit...weird looking."

The bird glares at him.

"You'll see." Dean tells him. "Just wait till next Christmas."


	16. Chapter 16

_I'm posting this now 1. For anyone who might be heading home, and bored :P and 2. Because I'm going home early tomorrow and might not have time to post an advent fic. _

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Santa Costume 3

"One more time." Dean asks, for the benefit of that part of his brain that is still having problems with this scenario.

"I want you, to fuck me..." the scruffy guy says slowly. "In the alley, in that suit."

Dean nods.

"So...the crux of this plan would be..."

"The having of sexual intercourse." The guy says, concisely.

"Ok...right." Dean frowns. "And why do you want to..."

The guy makes a 'why-would-I-not' face. "I'm Jewish. I had a Jewish upbringing...Santa...kind of a forbidden thing."

"Uh-huh." Dean says, feeling his brain squish in disbelief against his skull.

"My brother goes crazy for the easter bunny...easter eggs, those little chicks in baskets?" He shrugs. "Way weirder."

"Good to know that it gets weirder."

"Well, I'm not exactly taking you home to meet the family...I just want you to fu-"

"Yeah, I got it." Dean holds up a hand.

"So, do you want the suit or not?"

Dean really does want the suit. And...he looks at the guy, who's skinny-ish and pale and has the shaggy dark hair and stubble of a drug addict, but has pretty nice hands and a nice enough shape that Dean wouldn't exactly consider it a sacrifice to, well, earn his right to be Santa.

Plus, the dude has the nicest eye's Dean's ever seen.

Not that he's a girl or anything, but...he likes them.

"Fine." He says, in his most put upon voice. And the guy actually smiles.

"Great. I have condoms." He says happily. "Some are luminous...but I don't remember which."

Dean sighs inwardly, and takes the suit when it's offered, turning his back on the guy to change into it. This isn't even the weirdest thing he's ever done, and that saddens him.

"I'm Cas by the way." The guy says.

"Dean."

"And you have kids?"

"No. It's for my brother's kids."

"How old are they?"

"Three and Five."

"Ahhh. Good age."

"Yeah."

Dean finishes doing up the suit, puts the hat on his head, and hitches up his beard. He turns around.

"Perfect." Cas reaches out and takes his hand, leading him towards the fire exit. "Come on."

Dean goes.

Half an hour later, with Cas's thighs gripping his waist, his arms locked around Dean's body so tightly that he's pretty sure he's going to have bruises tomorrow, Dean comes back to himself after his orgasm, feeling the cold air in the alley stirring around him, and Cas's fingers trailing through his hair.

Dean fidgets awkwardly, still joined to Cas, pressing him into the alley wall, the other man's pants caught at knee level. He's sweating in the Santa suit, and Cas's hold on him eases into something more comfortable, far more intimate than anything Dean was prepared for. The guy sighs softly, and nuzzles the side of Dean's throat, and it feels kind of nice, so Dean lets it go on for a while, slipping his hand up the back of Cas's shirt to rub his spine.

"That was nice." Cas says quietly.

"Nice?" Dean's brow furrows. He's never had 'nice' sex before – good, amazing, hot, slow, fast, hard, upside-down and once (memorably) under water. But not nice. Nice was a visit to your grandma's, nice was the weather in May.

"Mmmm." Cas nods sleepily.

Dean pushes him back against the wall, jerking him out of his semi-doze.

"What?" Cas asks, surprised.

"We're going again."

"Why?"

"Because...'nice'? I'm not going down in history as 'nice' in bed."

"In alley."

"Whatever." Dean ignores the bitter cold of the alley and leans to nibble at Cas's throat, summoning all the strength he has for another round.

Cas sighs softly, moving against him.

"Ok...if you really want." The smaller man reaches between them to stroke between Dean's legs. "But I have to be at my brother's for dinner in an hour."

"That's ok, I have to go home and wash this suit anyway." Dean feels himself start to harden, and starts to move a little, earning him a pleased whimper from Cas.

The second time round is most definitely not just 'nice'. Dean has never heard anyone make that much noise during sex before, but it had to be a good thing. If the ecstatic litany of 'fuck me Santa' was to be believed, he'd done a pretty good job.

Cas had been pretty awesome too, even if Dean would have liked a little warning before he did _that. _

But then, it might not have had the same effect if it wasn't a surprise.

Afterwards, Cas had straightened himself out, handed Dean a coupon for a free cup of coffee at a cafe nearby (in lieu of a proper gift – he'd said) and then he'd been on his merry (limpy) way.

Dean went back inside, got changed, and put the suit back in the bag, praying that the store clerk wouldn't check it before he could wash it at home.

He takes the suit up to the front of the store.

"Can I pay for this?" Dean asks.

The Costume Barn clerk looks at the suit, and smirks.

"I'd feel bad if you did, it's not one of ours."

"What?" Dean frowns at the costume. "I found it in YOUR store, so if you don't want me to take it..."

"No, you can take it...guess you earned it." The guy says, with a grin. "Dude, you were had."

Dean can actually feel his _nipples _blushing, that shit could not be healthy.

"What?"

"Every year, that guy buys a cheap Santa suit, and waits in the back for the single-uncles-with-young-relatives to show up." The owner explains. "It's a trick. Kind of his...thing."

Dean feels both violated and kind of proud of the guy.

"Huh." Is all he says, before he absconds with the suit, vowing to wash it before he puts it on for Christmas tomorrow morning.


	17. Chapter 17

_Home now! _

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Santa Costume 4

Christmas morning goes off without a hitch.

Dean rises early, collects the freshly laundered Santa suit from the kitchen, and is suited and booted by the time Bobby and John come crashing downstairs with an exhausted looking Sam at six o'clock.

They unwrap presents, Dean ho-ho's with the best of them, watching as Bobby enthuses over his toy tool set, and as John plays with his new car. Sam drinks two cups of coffee and then makes the boys their breakfast, sitting them down in front of some early morning Christmas cartoons to keep them quiet as they play with the wrapping paper and empty boxes.

Consequently, when Dean goes to the kitchen to get some much needed coffee for himself, there is none left in the pot.

He slaps Sam around the face with his beard.

"How am I supposed to be a jolly Santa without magic tired-be-gone Santa potion?" He snaps.

"Go to the place on the corner, get a coffee, then come back?" Sam yawns. "And get me a caramel latte and a scone."

Dean is not happy, but he remembers his free coffee coupon as he puts on his jacket over the Santa costume and hurries to the coffee shop, hoping it's still early enough that no one will be around to see him. At least he'd left the beard and hat off.

The coffee place is small and mercifully empty, but it does also appear to be shut.

Frigging Christmas.

Dean kicks the door sharply and almost jumps out of his skin when a tired looking ghost face appears against the glass.

The door is unlocked, and there stands creepy-alley-Cas in drawstring pyjama pants and bunny slippers.

"We're clo...oh my God you're Santa."

"Yeah...I...uh..." Dean remembers why he'd been so pissed off last night. "You tricked me."

"You neglected people of my religion for hundreds of years."

"...That's not...I'm not actually Santa..." Dean sputters.

Cas shrugs. "I know." He blinks owlishly in the morning light. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you again."

"Well, I didn't know you were here...but..." Dean shrugs. "It doesn't suck that you're here...and that I'm here."

Cas nods knowledgably, as if Dean is making sense rather than an ass of himself.

"Do you want to come in?" Cas asks. "I have regular coffee on upstairs."

Dean glances back up the block towards Sam's house, he's done his bit as an uncle for today.

"This isn't going to get weird is it?"

Cas looks at him consideringly.

"It almost certainly will...I have gingerbread lube."

Dean goes with him anyway. And it does get weird. But he finds he doesn't mind that much, especially when Cas makes him proper coffee and lets him read the sport section in bed.

Though, Dean doesn't think he can look those bunny slippers in the eye ever again.

Or eat gingerbread for that matter.


	18. Chapter 18

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Santa Costume - Final Part

Dean eventually winds up back at Sam's, a wild haired Santa-phile in tow. He feels bad for abandoning his family Christmas for a chance of some weirdly kinky Christmas sex, but he hopes Sam will forgive him by the time the turkey's done and the fire's lit for Christmas night.

He finds his brother in the kitchen, basting like he hates all meat.

"Hey...Sorry it took so long...I got sidetracked."

"Sidetracked for three hours?" Sam snaps.

"I said sorry." Dean says, "I'll even make it up to you – I brought another guest for Christmas dinner."

Sam glares at him.

"When I'm already cooking? For four. Gee, thanks."

"It's ok, I don't eat." Castiel chimes, having navigated his way from the front door to the kitchen with only a brief detour into the hall closet.

Sam just looks at him.

Castiel looks back.

"Where do you find these people?" Sam sighs.

"Alleys, mostly." Dean shrugs. "He won't eat though."

"I'm full." Castiel nods.

"It's...ten thirty." Sam says, raising an eyebrow.

"I had a lot of chocolate syrup." Castiel says, totally blank faced. "Also - cream."

Sam shoots his brother a scourging look, and Dean feigns interest in a copper pot hanging near his face.

"Fine...whatever, just take him to the living room and...don't let him talk to my kids."

"I'm good with kids." Castiel says, smiling vaguely.

"Yippee." Sam mutters to himself as Castiel drifts from the room.

"Hey, don't be a bitch about it, it's Christmas." Dean scolds.

Sam turns around and points the turkey baster at his face.

"I know it's Christmas. Because I am here, trying to cook dinner all by myself, while you've been out scoring with..."

"A Jewish nutjob with an erotic Santa fixation." Dean fills in.

"Exactly. Typical. This is just typical of you."

"Sam, stop acting like we're married – I'm allowed to have fun." Dean backs away from his brother.

"And now..." Sam adds, as if Dean hasn't spoken. "I have to cook two more dinners."

"Two?"

Sam instantly looks shifty.

"Saaaaaam." Dean cocks his head to one side. "What did you do?"

"I...may have...reassigned your dinner." Sam says shiftily.

"Why?"

"Because I thought you weren't coming back...and then someone showed up..."

"Who?"

"A friend?"

"A penis-having friend?"

Sam turns beet red and looks down at the turkey as if it holds the answers to all life's mysteries, as opposed to just stuffing.

Castiel comes back to the kitchen door.

"There's a man in your living room, who looks just like my brother." He says, to no one in particular. "Which is weird, because Gabriel told me he was going out of town."

Sam looks at Dean, face blaring red.

"Cas...is this your uh...Easter-brother."

"What?" Sam asks.

"Cas has a brother who's all kinky for bunny outfits and chocolate eggs." Dean tells him.

"Yes." Castiel looks at Sam. "It's ok Sam, you have months to prepare yourself."

Dean snickers at his brother's expression.

Gabriel appears behind Castiel.

"Hey, do you need any help with dinner?" He asks, then inhales and scrunches up his nose.

"What smells like gingerbread?"


	19. Chapter 19

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Angel on a Tree 2

_So...this got really really angsty..._

Dean snags Castiel by the hand while Gabriel is still explaining to Sam that, since his creation predates Christ's birth he shouldn't have to celebrate this 'insipid bastardisation of pagan culture'. Sam calmly points out that Gabriel is actually part of the Christmas story, and the angel is retorting that 'Oh you think I went all the way down there personally for some...birth announcement? Like I'd show up with just one flower..." When Dean shuts the upstairs bedroom door, cutting off the sounds of the argument.

"Ok, sit up straight." He says, grabbing a comb and approaching Castiel, who's perching on the edge of the bed.

"I can do this myself." Castiel informs him.

"Theoretically." Dean mutters, starting to comb Castiel's hair. "But you never do."

Castiel can't dispute this, so he sits quietly and calmly while Dean parts his hair and combs it through, then flicks it back together into a neater version of his usual appearance.

"There." Dean says, stepping back. "Jesus, you've only had that hair what? Three years? And it's already knotted to Hell. Do you at least comb your wings?"

It's a throwaway comment, but Castiel is rather sensitive to the subject, having been alone for a good long while, and not being able to take care of his wings properly by himself. He could hardly ask Gabriel, an archangel, to help him with something as mundane as grooming himself.

"You don't comb wings." He says sullenly.

"Well what do you do with them, wise ass?" Dean asks.

"You have them groomed." Castiel mutters, trying not to think about his wings.

Dean frowns.

"Like...someone has to do it for you?"

"Yes." Castiel stands up. "We should go and...do Christmas now. Sam was most insistent."

"No, hold up a sec." Dean says, blocking the door. "You have them groomed...but, _you_ don't? Because, you haven't been around another angel in...years...'cept Gabriel, and he's kind of...important right? Like an archangel wouldn't groom a regular angel?"

Castiel nods, somewhat pleased at Dean's intelligence.

"So...don't they...I don't know, hurt, or something?" Dean asks. "Like when people don't wash their hair, only about a billion times worse because you've been...searching for God, and in deserts and flying around the whole time...and...to Hell?" He says, falteringly.

"I was groomed when I returned from there..." Castiel pauses. "Uriel and I spent a lot of time together...but, once he began to disobey, he declined to groom with me. Before him, Balthazar was still with the Garrison...and during the war sometimes Rachel would offer to take care of my wings."

"So you've had it done?"

"Not recently."

"Why?"

Castiel looks down at the ground. "Since...the war...and leviathan...there are few angels in heaven." He predicts Dean's next question. "Because...I killed a great many of them...and Raphael did so before me...and...those that are left...do not want to...touch me."

Dean looks unexpectedly stricken. "Why? I mean...sure, they're mad but...if Sam needed like, a wound stitched up, and I was angry with him, I'd still do it."

"They don't want to touch me because..."

He almost misses Castiel's next words.

"...because I'm disgusting."

Dean stands, utterly at a loss as to what to say. Castiel looks down at the floor, listening to Gabriel and Sam talk in the kitchen. Was it really only half an hour ago that he was almost happy? Experiencing a human festival with his friends, with the one member of his family who did no recoil from him like the monster he was?

Ever since he had returned from near-death, he had known that he would never be at peace, would never feel whole, or loved again in the way he had before he'd disobeyed. Still, he had not expected this, the constant pain of knowing, and the ache and pain in his debris laden wings.

Dean touches his shoulder, pushing him backwards a little and startling him back into the moment.

"Let me do it."


	20. Chapter 20

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Angel on a Tree 3

Castiel looks at Dean sorrowfully.

"You don't have to."

"But I can, right? It's possible?"

"...theoretically." Castiel murmurs. "My wings are physical, I fly with them in this reality...but, Dean you don't have to..."

"No, I will...can't have you all dirty at Christmas." Dean mutters, but Castiel knows that it's more than that. He just can't work out _why_.

He sits on the bed, and lets the veil over his wings ripple into nothingness. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see Dean's reaction to the vile nature of his wings. He hears the hunters throat swallow forcefully, can practically feel the nausea in the other man's stomach.

"You don't have to touch them."

"Just...tell me what to do." Dean says softly.

Castiel turns, lying flat on his stomach, dispelling his shirt and jacket with a thought, leaving his wings, formerly held artificially away from his body, as their touch disgusted even him, to fall over his back, folded slightly so that they too could lie on the bed.

He could feel the feathers, prickled up and peppered with bits of leaf and detritus and grains of dirt, ghost-leaves of dead grace, white and papery, were caught in his feathers as well. Then there was the less ordinary filth. The black, oozing goo of the leviathans, that had dried onto his feathers, thick crusts that were still wet inside, like clots of drying blood. There was blood too, of course, the blood of angels, of demons...of the humans he had slain in a power mad daze. There was sulphur from his trips to Hell with Crowley, shifter blood, vampire blood...he had killed so many, and each drop weighed on his wings in a murderous slick – drying, dried and wet blood, matting ad marring his once beautiful feathers.

"You..." Castiel shudders as the wet, cold blood oozes from his feathers and drips onto his back. "I need the blood, to be washed away...and then, the dirt, the...things that are stuck to the feathers...needs to be worked out..."

"Ok..." Dean breathes faintly. "Let me just...I need to find some water...water's ok, right?"

"Uh...holy water. And holy oil for cleansing." Castiel murmurs.

"I'll...I left my supplies in the spare bedroom, I'll be back."

Castiel hears Dean leave, and wonders if the hunter will return, or if, like the other angels, like Castiel would if he could, he will run from the spectacle of a soiled angel. From the ruined wings that were supposed to show his covenant with his Father. And now showed only what a mistake he was.

Dean's boots scuff back into the room, and Castiel hears water falling into a metal dish, and then the thicker, soft sound of oil flowing into another container.

"Start with the water." Castiel says softly.

Dean stands helplessly still.

"You can still go...I won't mind."

Dean's hands on his feathers, so unexpected and warm amidst the icy gore that coats him, make Castiel shiver. Dean has a bundled up cloth of some kind, and he starts at the tip of Castiel's wing, wiping a feather with holy water.

Castiel's breath shudders through his lips, his closed eyes well with sudden tears. He had not realised how it would feel to have his wings cleaned after so long. To have the awful stench of his betrayal slowly eased from his feathers.

Dean kneels on the floor and carefully cleans the feathers at the tip of his left wing, working up along the top, until he reaches the place where the wing joins Castiel's back. The hunter takes special care here, on the light, almost invisible plumage that has been pasted down with filth. He cleans, trying not to pull at the delicate strands of feather as he frees them from the slick, gently applying holy water and pausing to rinse the cloth every few seconds.

It's a mammoth task, Castiel's wingspan is easily wider than Sam is tall. Each feather is encrusted, and Castiel knows that it will take hours to clean even one wing. But He doesn't sense any impatience in Dean's touches, only a precise, careful intent, which makes Castiel's heart ache, and tears run out of his eyes, down his face and into the bed sheets.


	21. Chapter 21

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Angel on a Tree 4

After a while, Dean starts to hum to himself softly. The bed dips as Dean leans against it in different places, moving around the wing and cleaning it carefully. He hears Castiel's stuttering breaths turn to whimpers and soft sounds of relief, and he doesn't comment.

Castiel hears only a few scant words of Dean's song, when the hunter's voice changes from humming to singing tunelessly as he works. "eyes...still...blind man...ocean..."

Castiel can feel the muck coming away from him now, feel his drying, naked feathers prickle up, dislodging little pieces of debris that had previously been pasted down.

Dean washes and wipes, until finally, the outermost crust of black goo and blood is gone, leaving the feathers underneath wet, dark with water, but mostly clean.

"How do I..." They're the first words to be spoke for a while, and Dean catches himself in the silence before completing his question. "How should I get the dirt out?"

Castiel forces himself to speak, even though to do so feel wrong in this strange, intimate moment. Dean is seeing him at his worst, far worse than even his murderous intent had been. He is ruined. He is stained.

"If you...scratch your fingers through the feathers, and pull anything loose."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"It'll be fine." Castiel promises.

He has no idea what the feathers must feel like to Dean. They look like ordinary feathers, but Castiel's grace is in each and every one, a fine filament of spun glass or crystal, crafted to seem like feathers. They hum, like fibrotic wire or lightning bolts fractured a hundred times over, they fan up at Dean's touch, recognising him even as he gently works his fingers through them, short nails and finger tips scratching at the trapped pieces of leaf and twig, at the fragments of expended grace like large pieces of dead skin. Dean doesn't comment on the state of the wings, and after a while Castiel relaxes into the bed, feeling tears trickle anew out of his closed eyes. Dean's hands are warm and sure, and slowly, the scratching and ruffling turns to stroking, and then finally to a soft touch of even pressure, massaging tiny grains of sulphur and sand out of the very roots of the feathers, brushing them away and caressing the sore, reddened skin underneath.

Castiel's wings flex under the light pressure of Dean's hands, happy to be touched, to be felt. Castiel's body relaxes further, and he can't help the quiet sounds of relief and even pleasure that slip past his lips, his very grace is trembling with bliss.

Dean doesn't stop stroking his feathers and massaging the joints underneath when he asks. "What do I do with the oil?"

"When the feathers are dry, they need to be rubbed with oil to keep dirt off them for a while."

"Like a real bird?" Dean huffs to himself as if this amuses him.

"Yes."

Dean combs a few more grains of irritating dust out of Castiel's wings, and the angel jumps and trembles when the hunter leans down and blows gently on the fine down at the very root of his wing, loosening more dust.

"Sorry." Dean mutters.

The warm air stirs Castiel's skin in ways that he could not describe, even if given an eternity, as does the warm, wet closeness of Dean's mouth.

"It's fine." He whispers.

And when Dean does it again, he barely contains a cry at the newness of the sensation, the pleasure that it brings him.

After a while, Dean fetches a towel, and begins to carefully dab each feather, ruffling them and letting them dry.

"I always thought these would be black."

"What colour are they to you?"

"I don't know...kind of..." Dean thinks 'like my mom's hair looked' but doesn't say it.

"They look different to different people, or so I've been told." Castiel says quietly. "I've never had to show a human my wings before."

Dean touches them almost without thinking, running the fine strands of one feather over his fingers, letting the thin threads of gold, white, blond, copper, pale brown and cream catch the light.

"They're nice." He says, and Castiel feels the warmth in his words, more than that, the heat.

"Thank you."

The relief of being able to feel the air on his skin, moving through his feathers, is indescribable. The lack of old grease, and blood to tug at the feathers, the sudden ceasing of the itching that nearly drove him mad. It feels amazing, but nothing compared to Dean's careful breath on his softest feathers.

"I'm gonna do the oil now." Dean tells him.

Castiel is too exhausted to answer.

He hears Dean bring the oil forward, and expects another cloth to be wiped gently over his feathers. To his surprise, Dean's fingers find his plumage, oil coating every inch of his hands in a thin sheen. Castiel twitches, and a low noise escapes his throat.

Dean's hands move away.

"Sorry...is this not ok?"

"...It's good." Castiel mutters, shamefacedly, into the bed.

Dean pauses.

"Guess it would be nice, being clean after all that time?" He says warily, like he knows his own words for the half-truth that they are.

"Yes." Castiel says softly.

Dean's fingers return, gingerly, but after a while he begins to get back into the rhythm of his task, gently smoothing each feather into a pointed diamond, and laying it flat against his fellows.

Castiel's face flushes pink, he can feel the heat as he hides it from Dean in the sheets. His back feels warm and tingly, and after a while he becomes aware that his feathers are growing damp. The soft, fluffy strands of the clean feathers are becoming moist, and those under the wing grow humid as tiny amounts of his own natural oil slide down the shafts of the feathers, slowly spreading to the tips. This is the oil that would have been stimulated in a proper grooming session, between himself, and an angel that he was very close to. Castiel has never experienced it before however, and the sensation is somehow both soothing and arousing at once.

Castiel feels his belly grow as warm as the rest of him as his natural oil collects on him. If Dean notices the thicker, cloudier oil mixing with the pure, thin holy oil, then he gives no sign, only goes about his job carefully, making sure that each feather feels the shaping touch of his fingers.

He finishes almost reluctantly, running his hands down the insides of Castiel's wings, training his oiled fingers against his skin.

"There you go." Dean says quietly.

Castiel slowly moves to his knees, backing up and standing at the foot of the bed. He flexes his wings, and then beats them lazily through the air.

"You did a wonderful job." He sighs, feeling comfort and pleasure still dancing on his skin.

"No problem." Dean replies, and Castiel can almost hear the dryness of the hunter's mouth. "What do I do about..."

Castiel looks at Dean's hands, still shiny with holy oil, and the slightly richer product of his own wings.

Dean interprets Castiel's look of one of little concern, and rubs his hands together to distribute the oil, letting it soak into his skin.

Castiel sees the oil soak into the tanned skin of Dean's hands, burnishing it light gold, the slight hairs on his skin gleaming like precious metal threads.

He reaches out and touches Dean's hand with his own, feeling his own oil there, a mark of belonging, of acceptance and adoration.

Dean misinterprets the angelic gesture, the testing of his oiled skin, as something else. He curls his fingers around Castiel's, holding his hand, in his own gesture of acknowledgement and want.

In that moment, Castiel feels very lucky, to have someone who understands him, even when he does not.


	22. Chapter 22

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Posting tomorrow's early, as I'm headed out early tomorrow to see a friend.

The 10 Stages of gift-wrapping

SHOCK

"That's a...lot of presents." Dean looks at the pile of _stuff _they've bought over the last few weeks.

"Yeah." Sam says, just as surprised as he is. "I didn't think we'd bought that much."

"That's a...lot of presents." Dean says again.

EMOTIONAL RELEASE

"I love Christmas." Dean declares, sucking down his fifth egg nog.

DEPRESSION, LONELINESS AND UTTER ISOLATION:

"Saaaaaaaaam?" Dean calls from upstairs, where he's STILL wrapping presents. Sam left two hours ago to make more egg nog...and he still isn't back.

Maybe he's never coming back.

PHYSICAL SYMPTOMS OF DISTRESS:

"SAMMMMMM!"

Dean's stomach gurgles, as if it too is calling out for Sam, and the promised nog.

PANIC:

Dean is pretty sure that Sam is dead downstairs. That a bunch of demons have killed Bobby, broken into the house, murdered Sam, and that right now they are drinking all the egg nog and planning how to kill him.

And he's pretty sure the blackbird on the windowsill is in on it.

GUILTY FEELINGS:

If Sam is dead it's totally his fault.

Dean knows he should have gone to get his own nog.

He's a despicable human being.

HOSTILITY:

If Sam is dead, it's totally his own fault.

Because his stupid, post-wall breakage peace to all men mood attracts trouble like a big sign saying 'free egg nog'.

He flicks his hand, trying to get the piece of tape off the end of his fingers. No dice.

He should probably just cut those fingers off.

INABILITY TO RENEW NORMAL ACTIVITIES:

Dean can't remember a time when he killed demons with this knife.

He's curled so much fucking ribbon it's ridiculous.

GRADUAL OVERCOMING OF GRIEF:

If Sam is dead, then he figures he can make his peace with it. He has before, after all.

Plus that means he gets to keep the porn and nachos that he bought Sam at the gas station.

READJUSTMENT TO THE NEW REALITIES:

The bedroom door bangs open.

"Nog." Sam says unceremoniously, putting the pitcher on the floor.

Dean looks at him, and tries to remember how he should react to this.

"Was your hair always that long?"

"Yeah."

"Huh."

He curls some more ribbon and simultaneously regrets buying Castiel a label maker.. Why had he even been in the stationary aisle? It was madness. But now, he was just going to have to stick with it.

Besides, 'madness you had to stick with' was practically their family motto right now.


	23. Chapter 23

_Don't forget to look for 'Ink – By Sarah Goodwin' on the amazon kindle store, and on lulu (.com) _

Bird Seed 6

_Dean was a funny thing, Castiel had decided._

_He ran around all over the outside with the-bigger-Dean, chasing something that looked like an egg, but which was made out of something that tasted bad, and made a loud sound when Castiel had tried to peck it. Then, once the egg-thing was broken, they'd gone inside to drink stuff that smelt bad and looked like bad-water, but which made Dean and the-bigger-Dean loud and happy, and finally very sleepy and slumpy. _

_The-female-of-bigger-Dean watched them sleep on the not-bed in the room with the box which had smaller people in it. Only the box was not showing people right now. Castiel climbed up onto a small soft thing with four legs, and huddled down, waiting for Dean to wake up so they could go to their bed. _

_Now that Castiel was bigger, about the size of Dean's hand, he no longer had to sleep in the first place Dean had given him, the small cube of space that could be moved around by Dean from place to place. Now he slept with Dean, in Dean's bed, usually on the end, roosted with one eye open on Dean all night. _

_Dean brought him back to the house with the most outside every year when it got cold, and after that they went back to Dean's proper house, in the big stony place with huge houses. _

_Castiel liked it here better, but whenever Dean tried to leave him behind he chased after him. Dean never made him chase for long, he always let him come with him._

_Castiel had grown, and lost his baby feathers, now he was larger, sleek and black, with a white and blue stripe down his front, and light brown tail feathers. His puffy down had sharpened into an impressive crest on top of his head, and he could now pull Dean around by the ear if he wanted to get him upstairs faster. _

_Dean was a nice, kind thing, but not overly intelligent, as Castiel had discovered and used to his own ends. Dean had not, for example, realised that he had not actually injured him in his attack, when he had thrown that black heavy thing through the hole in his house._

_Castiel had been trying to woo the strange creature that had so caught his attention, but he had had no luck until Dean had thrown the thing. Up until then, whenever Dean had appeared in the house, opposite Castiel's perch, to begin what Castiel had deemed some kind of grooming practice, he had been unsuccessful in gaining his attention with his mating song._

_After Dean had thrown the thing at him and had come out to look for him, Castiel had lain down on the ground, and had pretended that he could not fly, so that Dean would care for him. _

_Then it was just a matter of getting Dean to submit to being his mate._

_No other bird in Castiel's old tree had thought he could do it. Gabriel had called him feather-brained, Balthazar had said Dean waddled like a duck, but with no feathers. Michael had scowled, Raphael had chased him away from his nest, and Lucifer had just hooted. _

_None of them had ever even really seen a thing like Dean. _

_And once Castiel had, he knew that he wanted Dean to be his, and that he wanted to take care of him._

_So he had accepted Dean's kindness, his food and shelter. And he had reciprocated._

_And his plan had worked perfectly._

_Now, as he watched Dean stir and blink awake, moving away from the-bigger-Dean and waving at him so that they could go upstairs, he ruffled and puffled up his feathers in pride, hopping on to Dean's shoulder and cooing softly. _

_He really was a very clever bird. _


	24. Chapter 24

Bird Seed 7

_**I hope you've enjoyed these advent fics, and they have been so much fun to write. Thanks to everyone who bought my book this past month – anyone who hasn't – you can still make my day by hopping over to amazon via my profile page **_

_**This is my last fic, and I'm so glad I made it all the way to the end of the run up to Christmas. I wish you all a merry Christmas, or just a merry Sunday, and I'll be writing again soooooooon **_

Reincarnation is not what many people think of, when they think of Christmas. But, it has its place in a celebration of birth, survival and in the death of an old year.

Years after Dean had buried Cas in a shoebox out at the cabin, after Dean's children had laid their father in the earth, alongside their uncle. After their mother, and aunt Jessica have also passed away, and the Christmas cabin has been passed from owner to owner, and finally been torn down.

Two children are born.

One, a new soul, one that has yet to learn what he must. His soul returns from death, almost unchanged, perhaps a litter wiser, a little aged. But, in all essence connected to who it once inhabited.

The other, awarded a great gift, this soul is old, so very very old that it had been tattered down to a shred, it's last life was spent within a bird. But, now the soul is re-spun, cared for in its past life, and allowed to flourish, and to grow. This time around, it gains human form.

The two of them, men, strong and able – meet one day. A banal, rainy day that sees them scurrying for cover in a dingy book store. Dean-who-is-not –Dean, buys Castiel-who-is-no-longer-Castiel a cup off bad coffee, and their souls glow together in warmth.

They become lovers as the rain ends, having stumbled back to an apartment that did not exist when their souls first met.

From that day on they are inseparable.

From the moment these souls met, they were inseparable.

Even death could not interfere with them.

They first met as lightning to a dead tree, then otters clasping paws in a wide river, ivy on an oak, standing stones – set closer to each other than the rest of the circle. They were formed like gold in a supernova.

They met as man and woman, a man and his faithful dog (when Dean slips backwards, gaining animal form in his quest for selfless love) They were man and bird, then men together, fighting a war that claimed both their lives. They live again as children together one hot summer, and they remember each other always.

Their souls live as women, men, and as animals, plants and sacred places. Parting only with the flow of time and the universe's will.

This time, on a bed in an upscale apartment, one soul turns to the other, and says –

"I don't ever want this to end."

The other replies,

"It doesn't have to."


End file.
